Chapter 56 Chapter 56

Chapter 56 Chapter 56
AJ sat at the mahogany bar of De Alma, the amber liquid in his glass catching the low, flickering light of the restaurant’s candles. He swirled the bourbon, watching the way it clung to the glass—viscous, slow, and stubborn. It reminded him of his own thoughts, thick with a regret he couldn't quite swallow.

He hadn’t heard from Katherine in days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the look of raw, unshielded vulnerability on her face the night she’d dropped that bomb on him—the moment she’d offered him her heart, and he’d instinctively taken a step back. He had called her cell until the ringing became a taunt, but when the line finally connected, it wasn't her voice that met him.

It was her mother’s—sharp, protective, and dripping with a cold disdain that made AJ feel like the villain in a story he hadn't realized he was writing.

“Katherine doesn’t want anything to do with you, Adrian. Don’t call here again.”

The words had been a surgical strike, precise and devastating. He deserved it, he supposed. He was a surgeon, a man trained to fix broken things, yet when it came to the woman he loved, he’d been the one to wield the scalpel. He had turned her away when she needed him to be her anchor, and now he was drifting in the fallout of his own cowardice.

He raised the glass to his lips, seeking the burn that might drown out the ache in his chest, but the world suddenly tilted. A heavy shoulder slammed into his, sending his glass flying. The glass shattered against the brass rail of the bar, the bourbon soaking into his expensive shirt like a spreading, dark bruise.

In a blind, white-hot flash of rage—rage at Katherine, at himself, at the unfairness of a world that wouldn't stop spinning just because his was falling apart—AJ turned. His fist followed his instinct, connecting with the jaw of the unsuspecting stranger behind him.

The man hit the floor with a heavy, unceremonious thud.

AJ stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles already throbbing with a dull, satisfying heat. He expected a fight. He wanted one. He wanted the physical pain to silence the emotional static in his head. The man’s friends instantly swarmed, their faces a blur of indignation and alcohol-fueled bravado.

“Take it easy, Ali! I didn’t mean any harm!” the man groaned from the floor. He clutched his jaw, blinking up at AJ as he struggled to find his feet. His first attempt failed miserably, his legs turning to rubber, and his friend and a girl—who looked more bored than concerned—had to haul him up by his armpits.

“You need to get out! Right now!” the restaurant manager roared, rushing over. He was a small, wiry man who looked entirely out of his depth against the wall of expensive suits and drunken egos.

“Hell no, you know what?” The drunk man, now upright but swaying like a reed in the wind, poked a shaky, entitled finger into the manager’s chest. “I’m going to buy this whole damn restaurant just so I can watch you cry when I fire you.”

“Hold up, Richie Rich.” AJ didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was the surgeon in him, the need to de-escalate a hemorrhage before it turned fatal. He stepped between the drunk and the manager, his hand firm on the man’s chest. “We don’t want him to call the cops. You’ve got a big night ahead of you, don’t you?”

“We definitely don’t want the blue-boys,” the man muttered, suddenly sheepish. A lopsided, boyish grin broke across his face. He didn't offer a name, and AJ didn't ask for one; the label Richie Rich seemed to fit the gold watch and the careless arrogance perfectly. “But I am buying this shit hole. Eventually. But first... first, I have to go to Vegas. I’m getting married to this beautiful lass.
That’s how my father calls women—lass. God, I hate him and his thick Irish tongue.”

“Right. The lass,” AJ muttered. He felt the anger draining out of him, replaced by a hollow, weary amusement. He pulled out his wallet, threw a stack of bills onto the bar to cover his tab and the broken glass, and grabbed Richie Rich by the elbow. The man’s friends seemed perfectly content to let AJ handle the heavy lifting of the exit.

Outside, the cool night air of the city hit them, sharp and sobering. AJ helped the man steady himself against a lamppost.

“You should come with me,” Richie Rich said, blinking slowly as he tried to focus on AJ’s face through a haze of expensive gin.

“Where?” AJ asked, a genuine, albeit cynical, grin tugging at his lips.

“To Vegas. To get married. For me, obviously. Not to me. I’m not that drunk.”

“I know, to the lass.” AJ started to shake his head. It was a ridiculous proposition. He didn’t know this man, let alone his character. He had a life here—or at least, the ruins of one.

But as he looked down the street, the reality of his situation settled in. He was leaving for Djibouti in exactly twenty-four hours. The humanitarian mission had come out of the blue, a sudden
opening that felt like the universe handing him a golden parachute. He’d been prepared to cancel it weeks ago when things were good with Katherine, but now... now she wasn't talking to him.

The distance wouldn't just be good; it would be a sanctuary.

Vegas felt like a different kind of sanctuary. It was an adventure he could lose himself in for a night, a way to bridge the gap between the man he was with Katherine and the man he would have to be in Africa. All he had to do was make sure he was back in time for the farewell lunch his mother had meticulously organized. When he returned from the desert, he would make one last, desperate attempt to win Katherine back. But for now? Nothing was stopping him from leaning into the chaos.

“You know what? Why the hell not,” AJ said, the decision sparking a rare flame of excitement in his gut.

“Yeah! My best man is coming!” Richie Rich hollered, throwing a heavy arm around AJ’s neck and nearly taking them both to the pavement.

As they piled into a waiting town car, AJ didn't look back at the restaurant. He didn't check his phone for the text message he knew wasn't coming. For the first time in his life, Adrian Jackson Ross Jr. wasn't the man in control of the room. He was just a passenger on a midnight flight to the desert, chasing a stranger’s wedding and his own disappearing shadow.

Richie Rich spent the ride to the airport rambling about the "lass" in question—a woman named Elena who apparently had the patience of a saint and the temper of a hurricane. AJ listened, finding himself drawn into the narrative. It was a distraction, yes, but it was more than that. It was a reminder that love was messy, loud, and often required a bit of temporary insanity to survive.

“You got a girl, Doc?” Richie Rich asked, squinting at AJ in the dim light of the car. “You look like a man who’s had his heart through a meat grinder.”

AJ looked out the window at the passing city lights, feeling the weight of the last few months pressing against his chest. “I’ve got a girl,” he whispered, the words tasting like a prayer and a goodbye all at once. “But I think I might have performed the wrong surgery on our relationship.”

“Vegas fixes everything,” Richie Rich promised, slapping AJ’s knee with a clumsy, drunken confidence. “Or it makes you forget the problem exists. Either way, you’re winning.”

AJ leaned his head back against the leather seat and closed his eyes. He thought of Katherine’s laugh, the way it used to fill the quiet spaces of his apartment. He thought of the mission ahead, the heat of Djibouti, and the lives he would try to save. But mostly, he thought about the next forty-eight hours. He was stepping off the map, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't care where the lines led.

“Yeah,” AJ murmured as the car pulled up to the private terminal, the gleaming jets waiting like silver birds. “Let’s go see abouta lass.”